The End of Transition and a New Beginning

Tomorrow marks exactly one week since I walked through the doors of Mappin & Webb for the first time as an employee rather than a customer browsing impossibly expensive watches I couldn't pronounce, let alone afford. On Monday, I'll stand in Birmingham Council House and officially become a British citizen. Wednesday brings my sixth and final beginner salsa class, where I've somehow managed not to step on anyone's toes for an entire course (minor miracle).

If transitions had official end dates, this would be mine.

First Week Revelations: From CAD to Customer Care

I've worked for three companies since arriving in Britain eight years ago, but I can honestly say that my first week at Mappin & Webb has been extraordinary. There's something profoundly settling about walking into a workplace where you're not just tolerated but genuinely welcomed – where colleagues notice your manner rather than just your output, where customers want to chat rather than simply collect their orders.

After years of staring at computer screens, designing intricate settings for engagement rings I'd never see worn, talking to actual humans about their actual lives feels revolutionary. This week alone, I've spoken with entrepreneurs, retirees planning anniversary gifts, young couples navigating their first major purchase together. Each conversation is a small window into someone else's story, and frankly, it beats debugging CAD files at 11 PM.

The irony isn't lost on me that I know more about the technical aspects of creating jewellery than I do about selling Swiss watches, but that's what the twelve-week training programme is for. Learning about complications and complications (the horological kind, though there's plenty of the other sort too) feels like being a student again – except this time, I'm getting paid for the privilege of not knowing things.

My new colleagues have been remarkably patient with questions like "Is it actually pronounced 'VAH-sher-on' or 'VASH-er-on'?" and "Do people really say 'timepiece' with a straight face?" The answer to the second question, incidentally, is yes – though I'm still working on the straight face part.

Becoming British, Finally

Monday's citizenship ceremony feels surreal. Not because I haven't been working towards it – the paperwork alone could wallpaper a small flat – but because it marks the official end of something that began when I was fifteen, sitting in my parents' Tehran home, dreaming of a life elsewhere.

I remember being sixteen and convinced I'd leave Iran by twenty-eight. The precision of that prediction now seems almost comical – as if life follows such neat timelines. I arrived at twenty-eight, spent eight years becoming someone I hardly recognise from that anxious young man at Birmingham Airport, and now, at thirty-six, I'm finally making it official.

The boy who dreamed of leaving couldn't have imagined this version of arrival: standing in a Birmingham council chamber, about to pledge allegiance to King Charles III (still getting used to that), surrounded by other people who've chosen to call this grey, wonderful, occasionally maddening island home.

The Rhythm of Connection

Salsa has been an unexpected gift these past six weeks. Not because I've become particularly good at it – I haven't – but because it's reminded me how much I'd forgotten about connecting with people beyond professional necessity. There's something magical about partner dancing: within minutes, you're laughing with strangers, learning to trust someone whose name you don't even know to catch you when you inevitably mess up the cross-body lead.

Our beginner group has become genuinely fond of each other, bound together by shared confusion and occasional moments of getting it right. I'm planning to continue with improver and intermediate classes, partly because I'm finally getting the hang of it, but mostly because Wednesday evenings have become the highlight of my week. Who knew that counting "1-2-3-5-6-7" could be therapeutic?

It's fascinating how dance creates instant intimacy – not romantic, necessarily, but human. In a world where we're increasingly isolated, salsa forces connection. You can't scroll your phone while someone's teaching you to spin. You can't avoid eye contact when you're learning to lead. It's wonderfully, terrifyingly present.

Small Victories, Big Changes

While I've been focused on the major life shifts – new job, new citizenship, new dance moves – it's the smaller changes that feel most sustainable. I've dropped from ninety-two to eighty-four kilograms over the past three months, not through any dramatic programme, but by cooking more and moving more. Turns out, when you're genuinely excited about life, taking care of yourself becomes less of a chore.

My kitchen experiments have become increasingly ambitious. Last week's triumph was a fusion Sunday roast featuring saffron-infused Yorkshire puddings (surprisingly successful) and this week's disaster was attempting to make Persian ice cream without an ice cream maker (let's not discuss the frozen custard incident). But even the failures taste better when you're cooking for joy rather than mere sustenance.

There's something deeply satisfying about feeding yourself well. After years of grabbing whatever was convenient between CAD projects, planning meals and trying new recipes feels like an investment in a version of myself I actually want to be.

The Future I'm Finally Ready For

For eight years, I've been building myself into someone worth becoming. It sounds rather self-important when I put it like that, but it's true. Every year in Britain has been about developing some aspect of myself – professional skills, language fluency, cultural understanding, emotional intelligence, even basic things like learning to queue properly without fidgeting.

I wanted to be completely self-reliant before opening my heart to partnership. Perhaps it's a traditionally masculine approach, or perhaps it's an immigrant's instinct, but I needed to know I could weather any storm alone before asking someone else to weather storms with me.

Now, with citizenship secured, a new career path beginning, and a sense of genuine belonging in Birmingham, I feel ready for that next chapter. I don't know when or how it will happen – despite my talent for detailed life planning, the heart stubbornly refuses to follow spreadsheets. But I'm finally comfortable with uncertainty, which feels like progress.

I'm financially starting over in many ways – immigration and career changes rarely come with pension transfers – but I'm starting with eight years of British experience, a published book, and the kind of confidence that only comes from having survived your own major life decisions.

The End of Provisional Living

Monday's citizenship ceremony isn't just about acquiring a burgundy passport (though I'm embarrassingly excited about easier travel). It's about the end of provisional living – that state of always being slightly prepared to leave, of never quite unpacking everything, of treating major decisions as temporary experiments.

For eight years, I've been someone between countries, between careers, between versions of myself. The transition period is ending. What begins now feels more permanent, more rooted, more genuinely chosen rather than circumstantially stumbled into.

At thirty-six, I'm finally ready to be where I am.

What Comes Next

This blog will continue documenting what happens after you've achieved the goals you've been working towards for years. What do you do when you've become the person you wanted to be, but life still stretches ahead with infinite possibility?

I suspect the answer involves Swiss watch complications, intermediate salsa moves, and the ongoing project of being genuinely present in the life you've built rather than always preparing for the next one.

Next week, I'll write about the citizenship ceremony itself – the oath, the emotions, and what it actually feels like to officially belong somewhere you chose rather than somewhere you happened to be born.

After that, perhaps I'll tackle the existential question of whether a thirty-six-year-old Persian-British man can successfully learn to make proper Yorkshire puddings without googling the recipe every single time.

An Invitation to New Beginnings

If you're also at the end of a long transition – whether immigration, career change, or simply the slow work of becoming who you want to be – I'd love to hear how you're navigating the shift from building towards something to actually living it.

The comments are always open for fellow life-reinvention enthusiasts, recovered CAD designers, terrible dancers with good intentions, or anyone who's ever tried to make Persian ice cream without proper equipment.

P.S. – If anyone knows the proper etiquette for addressing customers at high-end watch retailers, please advise. My current approach of "Alright, love, fancy a Rolex?" isn't quite hitting the mark, apparently.